Will I Remember?
by missMHO
Summary: There's an incident during the case and when John wakes up at the hospital, the last thing he remembers is being shot at Afghanistan. Is it possible to develop such bond with Sherlock again? /EDIT MARCH 2013: done massive grammatical self-correction/
1. Chapter 1

_I see emotion in your eyes_

_Will I remember? Can I remember?_

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><p>Sherlock Holmes wasn't used to feelings (curiosity and boredom constantly changing places didn't come into equation). So right now, while having quite too much of them dancing can-can on his guts and making him dizzy, he decided to make at least minimal use of them and distract himself (it takes a genius to distract yourself from the feelings with those exact feelings). He <em>needed<em> to focus on something, anything.

Let's start with sorting them out.

Anger? Yes, certainly. He was angry at the whole world. But mostly at this guy with scarred face (who will be chased down by the only consulting detective and— well, he hasn't thought much of the details yet, but certainly the guy won't come out of it _alive_). He was angry at Lestrade for giving him the case of scarred murderer. He was angry at the doctors for their uncertainty. But most of all... He was angry at himself.

Fear? He had to admit it's presence. He felt it crawling over his stomach and making a nest there. Oh god, Sherlock hated fear.

There was more, much more, but above all of them, the most transparent one was _guilt_.

He felt guilty, hell he did. For a prodigy he was, Sherlock was for quite often doing things that turned out _wrong_-

Which leads us to the elementary reason for being where we are, the reason for all those feelings and the distracting.

John was laying motionless on the hospital bed with hideous bandage over his head and _this was all so wrong_. Doctor said the damage wasn't as bad as it looked (Sherlock still smelled John's blood on himself, his shirt and trousers were soaked with it) but they won't have certain diagnosis till the ex-army doctor wakes up.

So Sherlock waited. Patiently. He wasn't sure about the amount of time passing. The first minute of looking at regularly rising and falling John's chest seemed like eternity itself, so what did it matter how many time has actually passed? World's only consulting detective was sitting in uncomfortable hospital chair and was really really far from getting bored by this stillness.

"Where..?"

John's voice was weak and hoarse. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to say something more but was interrupted by his flatmate, who has jumped on his feet the moment he heard the voice.

"You're at Bart's, you've been knocked out by this scarred bastard, he hit you quite hard, I—" Sherlock stopped when he noticed _too_ puzzled look on John's face.

"Excuse me but... You're not from the hospital staff aren't you? What are you doing here? _Do we know each other_?"

Sherlock realized he was gripping John's sheet only when his eyes landed on his white knuckles. He took a deep breath. Then another. And the third...

"I'll get the doctor, they wanted to be informed when you wake up," he said after the fourth. He wasn't quite sure the voice that said it was his own.

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Waiting for the doctor was even worse than waiting for John to wake up. Previously there was at least calmingly regular rising of John's chest and now— now was only damned white door to John's room; to a room of injured John who didn't remember him.

Alright, let's calm down. Nothing will hurry the results. Distraction.

Sorting out the feelings—where were we?

Oh, the _fear_ has not stopped at making the nest. Now it owned a mansion over Sherlock's guts and made a party for confusion, hopelessness, rage, guilt (that was now growing like a healthy teenager) and shy desire of revenge.

Since when did he even knew how to name all those feelings?

Was now _stupidity_ joining the party? The answer to that question was lying behind those damned white door.

When the doorknob moved, Sherlock found himself already by the door. Doctor jumped surprised by detective's sudden appearance.

"Well, the only harm that the wound has caused to his brain is slight damage of his memory centres. The last thing he remembers is getting shot in Afghanistan. There is a chance he will recover his lost memories but I can't guarantee when it'll happen... or if at all."

Sherlock felt doctor's hand on his shoulder and forgot to shave it off as his brain was getting through the data it's just received.

"Excuse me now, I've got other patients I need to visit today."

Sherlock counted his breaths again. He has been perfect at deadening his emotions since he was a child, why was it so hard to do lately? He never needed to even think about it, there were always more important and more interesting things than _feelings_.

Where was his dear indifference and unconcern _now_?

He finally entered the room. John was sitting in his bed, his pale face full of misunderstanding. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with himself, so he stood by the door, waiting.

"I'm sorry," John said suddenly. "The doctor told me you're my friend and I— I'm sorry, but I really don't remember you."

Sherlock counted three breaths.

"We're flatmates," he specified.

"Oh..." John seemed embarrassed. "So... What is your name?"

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! I'll truly appreciate all reviews and opinions on the story. I'm not a native speaker of english so I'm a aware that there must be a lot of awful mistakes up there... Anyway, if anyone actually read it and enjoyed it a little - let me know! I'd like to know if there's even on reader for whom I should upload next chapters ^^<em>


	2. Chapter 2

John entered the flat on 221B Baker Street with no expectations, but when he saw the dominant chaos and omnipresent weird belongings which he wouldn't call furnishings, he started to highly doubt if this guy, Sherlock Holmes, wasn't some lunatic who was trying to make him believe they have known each other, while he— well, what exactly could he want from him?

"Your bedroom is upstairs," Sherlock said and disappeared behind some door. Quirks of his character had just started showing up but John guessed he will have to get used to them.

John entered the room which was supposed to be his. It felt good there, like he found himself somewhere he belonged – maybe this Sherlock guy wasn't lunatic in the end... He looked around his room and realised he wasn't really sure what to start with.

There was a laptop on the desk. It must have been his. Sherlock told him he had been writing a blog – maybe it would help him remember? He hated that feeling that wouldn't leave him since the awakening at the hospital – that he forgot something really important... Well, he did, he couldn't recall few months of his life. The last memory he had was getting shot during the freaking war. He didn't know how he got to England back from battlefield, how his recovering went, if he had a job or someone he cared about – it was all confusing enough. But it felt like there was something more and it was missing. Something _crucial_. Maybe his files would help somehow.

Laptop was password protected and... John couldn't guess it right. All the possibilities that would come up to his mind didn't work. It must have been something more recent.

When an hour of exploring his room gave unsatisfying results, he came back to the sitting room. Sherlock was in the kitchen, leaning above little army of Petri dishes.

"You're a scientist, then?" John asked. Sherlock smiled in a way John couldn't interpret.

"No. I'm a consulting detective."

"Never heard of it before," he shrugged, but was visibly interested.

"You did. You just don't remember," Sherlock pointed out with a weird note in his voice.

John tsked. "Will you remind me, then? I've heard of private detectives, but—"

"It's because _I_ invented the job. I also offer services like private detectives, but most importantly, I am the person that police consult when they're out of their depth."

"_Police_ consults _you_?" John chuckled. This guy was really fond of himself. Sherlock startled a little and straightened himself.

"Last time we had this conversation, I've deduced half of your life story from your mobile, but as now you aren't sure how much I know about you, I guess it'll be hard to prove my point that way again."

John crossed his arms on his chest. His flatmate was an arrogant bastard. Why did he put up with him earlier? It can't be _that_ hard to find someone to share a flat with.

"Anyway—"John cleared his throat. "You do own a laptop, don't you? Can I borrow it?"

"What's wrong with yours?" the consulting detective queried, though his attention was focused back on the microscope.

"Well, I can't remember the password" he admitted.

"I would have happily helped you as I've broken it few times before. But the last one— I couldn't guess it, you really got me there." Sherlock seemed to find the fact extremely vexing, while John got even more angry and confused. That guy was _impossible._

"Why—why would you need to break my password?" he tried his best to sound calm.

"I was using your computer without asking," came the answer, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John opened his mouth and then closed them and shook his head in disbelief.

"Nevermind. Can I borrow yours?"

"It's on the couch."

John hesitated for a second.

"Do you happen to know the address of my blog?"

"Check the history."

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Sherlock Holmes was telling the truth – he was the only in the world consulting detective and police really did relied on him when they couldn't cope on their own – John could now read about it in his own words. What Sherlock didn't mention was that the blog was practically about him. However, what mostly struck John, was the fact that he was some kind of assistant of the detective and actually helped him solve the cases (detective himself didn't care to bring that up when he explained they were flatmates). Blog seemed to be quite popular. And as John went through the entries, one even more surprising thing occurred to him: it seemed like he somehow _adored_ Sherlock Holmes and his genius.

As for now, John got an impression that Holmes was an annoying weirdo and was seriously concerned about his own sanity before the awakening – why on earth did he put up with him and the flat which seemed almost ineligible to live in? Not to become popular blogger, he was at least certain about it. He always enjoyed writing when he was in school but not to _this_ extent. What was really behind it all? Maybe he needed time to get to know Sherlock again? But the consulting detective wasn't making it easy for him. His moods constantly changed (though they spent not more than two days together and most of it at the hospital) and every next one was more unexpected. Once he was caring and concerned, next minute he acted like ill-mannered prick with ego bigger than himself.

"Thanks for borrowing the laptop. I'm going to get some sleep now. My head hurts," he announced as he shut the computer down. He left the room without any response from the flatmate.

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><p><em>I just wanted to thank you all who liked the 1st part of the story and added it to favourites or story alerts. And above all the positive reviews (I'm extremely pleased that my english isn't that bad ;) I was really surprised to get such response. It's my first english fanfiction published online and you all just made me so so happy you can't imagine. Thank you! I can just hope I won't disappoint you and you''ll enjoy the rest of the story. I'll do my best!<br>__Of course I'm still open for the critics and reviews of new chapter!_


	3. Chapter 3

John entered the room with caution, as though he was entering enemy's territory. Sherlock heard it in his steps. There were too many unknowns and obviously the ex-army doctor didn't feel comfortable with gaining the answers from his weird flatmate. Nevertheless, he had no other choice.

"You've got questions," said Sherlock, still lying motionless on the couch, with two nicotine patches on each hand.

"Good morning to you, too," John sat in his usual armchair (was he aware it was his favourite?) and sighed.

"Well, I've found some medical documentation in my room yesterday. After Afghanistan I had psychosomatic limp and intermittent tremors in left hand—"

"Yes, you did," Sherlock confirmed when the pause after John's pronouncement seemed too long.

"I don't have it now. I'm curious if you happen to know how that came about? It isn't cured that easily."

Sherlock shut his eyelids tightly, like he was in pain. What could he say? What _should_ he say?

I've cured you? I've cured you so in return you had tried to fix me? You tried to fix me and left me in the middle of the repair and now I don't know what have you done to me? And now I have to take care of you and I don't know what to do because you didn't made it in time to fix me?

"Adrenaline," detective answered in indifferent tone. "While you accompanied me on my cases, the adrenaline and the environment that you got used to during war –it made your limp disappear." Sherlock looked at the army doctor for the first time since the conversation started. He needed to register his reaction now.

John was bewildered. He was slowly getting through the information he obtained.

_"Do you understand now?"_ Sherlock wanted to ask. "_Do you understand we need each other? Because I was a fool and it seems like I understood just now, when I'm about to lose you."_

But of course, he didn't say anything.

"I had a therapist, didn't I? If I had a psychosomatic limp, I had to have a therapist." John scratched his forehead. The bandage must have been making the skin on his head itchy because he was doing it constantly.

"Yes, you did have one."

"I'll look for her number," John announced and stood up. He suddenly stopped halfway out of the room.

"Are there _four _nicotine patches on your hands?"

"I didn't sleep—" Sherlock answered casually, "—well," he added when he decided that it would sound better than the truth. "I'm under quite a stress lately."

"A case?" John lightened up, seeming genuinely interested.

"Not really," Sherlock said and this time he was certain about stupidity sneaking somewhere into his head.

"Nevermind," sighed John and went to his room, this time without looking back.

Sherlock was angry at himself. He should be doing something to help John remember. He had already seen it in those kind eyes – the growing doubt. John must have been wondering why the hell he kept on putting up with such unbearable flatmate. Well, Sherlock sometimes wondered too. He had somehow cured John from his disability before and John had somehow admired Sherlock's intellect and skills – but still it didn't seem enough to actually tolerate the rest of Sherlock. If only he knew what had he done last time... Is he able to make John stay again? So far army doctor was relying on him as the only link with his forgotten past and was stuck with him probably out of curiosity. But what if he decided against bearing Sherlock this time and stopped trying to regain his memories - considered them as unnecessary, not important? What if John left him?

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><p><em>This update is a shorter one but I'm quite busy at the university and I'm actually writing this fanfiction on my mobile during lectures ;) But I'll do my best to add new parts of the story every two days as I did so far.<em>

_Thank you again for such positive feedback!_


	4. Chapter 4

When John came down an hour later, Sherlock didn't seem to move from his spot on the couch during all this time. John thought that maybe detective had fallen asleep, but when he started making himself breakfast, he felt the other man's gaze on his back. For a moment he wondered if Sherlock had actually eaten anything but then decided it should be none of his concern – Sherlock was an adult and John was _just_ his flatmate.

He also didn't share the results of a phone call to his therapist. According to her 'meeting Sherlock somehow cured him' and John had no idea what to think about this. Detective's story about adrenaline sounded credible but still, that feeling of missing something wouldn't leave him. And there was no one else he could talk to about it. He tried calling Harry, but when she finally answered (after eighth attempt), she was totally drunk and not really able to converse.

But what made John actually freeze in astonishment was the realisation that unconsciously, while preparing his late breakfast and lost in thoughts, he made two cups of coffee. He didn't even _remember _how Sherlock takes his, but there it stood before him – two sugars, no milk – and he _knew _it was how Sherlock liked it. For a moment he stood with a cup over the sink and seriously considered spilling it there.

"It's ridiculous," he muttered to himself.

In the end he put it on the coffee table in front of his flatmate, who now was reading a newspaper (John didn't hear him change his position on the couch – what planet was this man from?). Without any word of comment, John sat in his armchair and started eating his toasts. He was looking at Sherlock furtively, curious what would he do about the coffee.

At first consulting detective looked at it for a few seconds with a bit of surprise on his face, then he reached for it. He took a sip and closed his eyes, as though the coffee burned out his throat. In a swift movement, he put the cup back and left to a room John guessed was his bedroom. John didn't understand what had just happened. What had he done wrong?

John sighed loudly. He hadn't moved from his place in the armchair when he finished eating. His head hurt but he didn't like taking painkillers, so he decided to ignore the pain and just don't do anything that may worsen it. He had absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go. The only thing left was figuring out those lost months. He felt the need to understand what there really was between Sherlock and him.

In the hospital Sherlock said they were friends. Well, they must have been. There was no way John would put up with detective's arrogance and selfishness unless there was some connection. They have lived together for months and when you share a flat with someone even little things about them can drive you over the edge. And in case of Sherlock those weren't just _little things_.

John could not ignore the fact there was another option. Could it be that they'd been _together_? They'd been flatmates, no one else even had to even know about it... Well, while being a teenager John had considered the option of being bisexual. He never had any issues about homosexuals and he always appreciated handsome looks of other man. Still, never found himself actually _interested in_ any male so he decided that he's just tolerant and straight. Could it be that in his late thirties...? Well, he may not remember Sherlock as a person but this short period of time spent with him since 'the awakening' was enough to assess his looks and John needed to admit that his flatmate was really nice thing to look at. Dark curls (John's hand twitched when he imagined how it feels to touch them), pale skin, svelte and graceful body— and those hypnotising eyes. John wouldn't call him stereotyped handsome, nevertheless he couldn't really find any other word than _beautiful_— despite how awkward it sounded even to himself. And according to his own blog, he had had some sort of crush on this man's brain. John may have lost his memories but he knew _himself_. And he knew that he never was a person to easily praise others and he can read between the lines of his own blog entries. There was also that one thing he _really_ tried not to think about. When he was with Sherlock, when he was meeting his gaze, something inside his chest actually _ached_. He couldn't name the feeling. Was it some kind of guilt about forgetting his friend? What had he failed to remember? Could it be—

John Watson wasn't certain of anything anymore and his future was a complete unknown, but still, surrounded by blank pages, he couldn't ignore the feeling of being somehow bonded to Sherlock Holmes and it turned out to be the only thing he could cling to.

He actually jumped when he heard unfamiliar voice coming from the door.

"Excuse me, Doctor Watson, is Sherlock home?"

The intruder was wearing expensive suit and seemed not disturbed at all by the fact that he just forced himself into somebody's flat. He was smiling at John while leaning casually on his umbrella. John spotted a manila folder in his right hand.

"If you want to kidnap John to make your _offer_ again, you're going to be disappointed. He has lost his memories, not _himself_."

John didn't notice Sherlock entering the room. He had never heard detective's voice being so sharp before.

"You really do love to be dramatic, Sherlock. I don't have any offers for John... today."

John inhaled angrily. This guy with umbrella was as arrogant as Sherlock. They were both talking casually about him like John wasn't there. And did Sherlock really say something about kidnapping him..?

"Hello, nice to meet you," the ex-army doctor finally spoke up, trying to sound as sarcastic as he was capable of.

Sherlock shook his head as though he actually realized he'd done something wrong.

"John, this is my brother, Mycroft."

Brother? Well, that explained the shared arrogance.

"What is the reason for honouring us with your visit, _brother_?" Sherlock buoyantly crossed his arms on his chest, his blue dressing gown swinging around him. He was clearly not pleased by the appearance of his sibling.

"I just thought you'd be interested in the newest information about the man who mutilated Doctor Watson," Mycroft waved with the manila folder in his hand. Sherlock's gaze sharpened.

"Thank you," those two simple words sounded like foreign language coming out from detective's mouth. He took the folder out of his brother's hand.

"Anything else you want? I hope not. I won't be offering you tea so if you don't have any other business here, I'd like you to leave." Sherlock was never polite type, but that seemed to outgrow even himself. Mycroft smiled crookedly.

"Good bye, Doctor Watson," Mycroft bowed a little, still leaning on his umbrella. "Good luck, _little brother._"

Both Holmes' walked out of the room leaving John alone and with an awful headache. He decided to finally take his prescribed tramadol and take a nap. It was all too much for his wrecked head.

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><p><em>Yay, an update! Just as I promised! I'm quite smug that I actually apply to that every-2-days-update rule I've given myself :) I caught a cold just recently and do not really feel good, but fortunately I had this part ready for you earlier.<em>

_Hope you still enjoy reading the story as much as I do writing it. Thank you for the newest reviews. They're always making me extremely happy :_


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock heard thudded footsteps as John went to his room upstairs. Detective was angry at himself for the way he treated John today but he didn't really know how he should act. Being his ignorant self failed when his flatmate made coffee for him. That freakin' coffee was perfect, like John always did it for him, like Sherlock liked it the most. But he didn't tell him anything about his tea/coffee habits since the hospital, so John must have _remembered_. Did it mean his memory was recovering or was it just sheer luck, coincidence, a glimpse of false hope? Whatever it meant, bittersweet liquid wouldn't slid down his throat. He needed to get away. He needed to sort out the feelings again one by one and disable them.

And then Mycroft's visit— Sherlock wasn't really in the mood for seeing his brother. And the way he behaved around him surely didn't gain younger Holmes any advantages in John's eyes. But there was at least one hugely positive aspect of this morning. The files that Mycroft gave to him.

Sherlock was desperate, he needed to admit it. He _had to_ find the guy who damaged John and this time it wasn't the irritation about unsolved case. He'd been trying to figure something out all preceding night but he didn't have enough data. He had only the information he gathered up to encounter of the murderer and John. He couldn't go out and investigate as he felt the necessity of staying at home in case John needed him. But at this point, would the army doctor even ask him for help?

Sherlock opened the manila folder and looked at the first document. It included murderer's description and personal information - almost all sections of the latter were signed as unknown. Nevertheless, Sherlock learnt professional nickname of the wanted man – 'Angelface'. Ironic choice for someone with a burn scar covering his right cheek and half of the neck. Even more interesting choice of a profession - you'd have thought it's not recommended to become a criminal hireling with such a distinguishing mark. Nevertheless, Angelface was good at his job. Second page of the document was a list of the murders he was accused of. It was quite impressing. But he met his Waterloo when he messed with Sherlock Holmes.

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Two hours later there was a knock on the door. Sherlock budged at the rapid emerge from his thoughts.

"Yes?"

"Um, Sherlock?" John's voice was muffled by the door. "May I ask for your help?"

Sherlock gulped, his heartbeat suddenly quickening.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock answered as he came out from his room. He gave the doctor examining look. John woke up a few minutes ago - his eyes were still sleepy, clothes more crumpled then when Mycroft visited and there was an imprint of pillow on his cheek. Sherlock clenched his hand into a fist to fight the urge to touch it.

"What do you need?"

John smiled as though he was perplexed about disturbing detective over such a trivial thing.

"I need to change the dressing. I've done it by myself yesterday but it was pain in the arse to do," he explained scratching the back of his neck where the edge of the bandage met his skin. "And I think I can finally get rid of this itching bandage, lint should be enough by now. But someone needs to help me with the mirrors so I can take a look at it."

Sherlock made a mental note to analyse later, why on earth this request made him so happy. It was changing a dressing, not a triple murder with halo of unknown and mystery.

"The bathroom will be the best for that, I think," detective said. "Wait for me there with fresh dressing, I'll arrange the second mirror."

John looked like he was amused by actual kindness of his flatmate, but followed the instructions without a word.

Sherlock felt almost excited. Had he finally done something _right_?

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><p><em>Hello on this lovely Sunday :) I'm still ill but I made sure you get the promised chapter - though again it turned out to be of shorter ones. Anyway, I hope you still enjoy the story. Lovin' you all for reading it!<em>


	6. Chapter 6

At first John didn't want to ask Sherlock for anything, but when he heard detective's positive response for the undefined request, it all felt somehow right.

He was already seated on a stool in front of bathroom mirror, when Sherlock entered with another one. John didn't even ask where did the detective get it from, there was such mess in that flat, that finding spare mirror somewhere didn't really seem unachievable.

Without a word, Sherlock put the glass square aside and located himself behind the flatmate. John observed his reflection, next to his own, the concentration on detective's face and smooth movements of his hands - the same as when he was working on his chemical experiments – as he was gradually removing the bandage. John gasped silently when he noticed that while Sherlock was halfway through, his hands started trembling. For a moment he thought that maybe his eyes were deceiving him, but the twitch, that Sherlock's hands gave when the wound was exposed, was impossible to miss.

John was confused. According to what he had written in his own blog, Sherlock was more than accustomed to the sight of blood, injuries and even some messy deaths. So why was the detective nervous now? Had something worsened in his stitches?

"Everything alright?" he had to ask. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes— It looks good, seems like it's healing well."

John could swear there was something wrong in Sherlock's voice. He didn't know how he was so certain about it, but he _was. _For a moment their gazes locked in the mirror, but before John managed to grasp the unnamed feeling that overwhelmed him for those seconds, Sherlock cut the connection and bended to get the second mirror.

John cleared his mind of Sherlock for a moment and focused on his wound. He was always grateful for the skill of switching between his private and professional-doctor self. As his flatmate had said, injury seemed to heal just fine, no traces of infection, all stitches in the right place. His head felt almost thankful of freeing it from the bandages.

"Looks good, indeed," the army doctor said out loud and Sherlock interpreted it as a permission to put the mirror down.

"Could you?" John handed the detective a lint and medical plaster.

"Of course."

John noticed a little tremble in Sherlock's hands again and decided he needed to distract himself from it somehow. He was overanalysing everything lately.

"Tell me something about your last case."

Sherlock jerked his head up with surprised expression on his face.

"I was your blogger earlier, I guess your work really fascinated me," John explained. "I'd like to know what I'm missing now, due to my _accident._"

"Well—" Sherlock cleared his throat. "I haven't taken anything new since our last case, the one that caused _the accident."_

"I guess it'll be even more interesting then. Maybe I'll finally find out what have I lost my blood about. What's going on in that one?"

"There was a double murder. It had some distinguishing features about it, known from some unsolved cases from recent years – victim tied to the chair, neck slit in almost exact same angle by left-handed murderer. The killer himself was complete unknown. I've discovered that the married couple that was slaughtered this time had some smelly brushes with local mafia, about the money of course. They borrowed some to develop their own little business. They gave it all back, but the mafia wanted percent from their income as the business was based on their loan. The couple refused, I found some threats in their house. It seemed they were adamant. Even so, mafia needs to keep appearances and they hired our elusive killer to clean for them. However, in this particular murderer the hireling made a mistake. He didn't check that this very night he came to do his job, his victims were taking care of their little niece. The girl was brilliant enough to hide in the closet and don't make a sound. Thanks to her we got a portrait of the killer. The man has half of his face burnt. This distinguishing mark and my analysis of the dirt he brought on his shoes was enough for me to locate him through my homeless network. You and me— we came after him. At some point we had to split up and you got to him first. You two got into a fight and when I managed to get to you, he fled and you were lying on the ground with the back of your head smashed with a brick."

Only when Sherlock finished the story, John realised that the detective – though the lint had been already plastered and seemed to hold in place just fine – was making circles around the wound with his slender fingers. John unwittingly closed his eyes, lost in the sensation for a moment. Shivers of pleasure seemed to spread to all of his nerves from the place where Sherlock's hand danced in his short hair. When suddenly Sherlock's hand withdrew, John opened his eyes, thrown. He tried to read something from his flatmate's face, but Sherlock was avoiding his gaze.

"So, that's the story up to my encounter with the killer. Have you deduced anything new? What about the files your brother brought you?"

"There wasn't too much in them. I've just learned the killers nickname: 'Angelface'. I need to think of some way to get to him." The last sentence made his voice sound quite desperate.

John found himself unable of any retort. He wanted to lengthen the conversation, as mostly as possible extend this casual moment spent with Sherlock Holmes, when it finally happened. But in his not-really-fucking-blissful ignorance, he didn't know how he should behave.

Oh god, how he hated not being able to live his life, how he hated _this_.

"Well, speaking of which," Sherlock broke the silence. "I'll get back to work if you don't need me anymore."

"Of course. I'm sorry for troubling you with that at all."

Sherlock smiled lopsidedly, like was somehow offended by John's apology, and left the bathroom (not really troubling himself with getting the second mirror back in his previous place). John bit his lip in anger.

"Sherlock!" he suddenly rushed after the detective, feeling that this is the only moment when he had gathered enough courage to bring up _that _question. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the kitchen and turned to face his flatmate.

"What is it?"

"I, um—" John suddenly felt like socially-awkward teenager. "It's this _thing_ I've been wondering about. I mean—Before my amnesia, did we— were we anything _more_? Like _together_?" when the question actually left his lips, he was overwhelmed by paralysing desire to disappear.

Sherlock froze in place for a few seconds and then, to John's surprise, he laughed.

"If you'd remember how you had been growing more and more irritated with denying whenever someone raised that suspicion," he said with unreadable expression on his pale face. "Why did you think of that? Tell me, I'm sure you're going to be delighted to get the answer when your memory comes back. You always wondered where people get that idea from."

Well, that wasn't what John expected at all. Suddenly, he felt like he may have just got his forgotten-self entangled in some weird mess with that question. And if now he would actually confess that he found himself attracted to the consulting detective and that the genius himself acts suspiciously enough to have such doubts (what was that thing only just minutes ago when Sherlock was _stroking_ his head?), it all may turn out to be a shot into his own foot.

"I asked first," he blurted out in the end. Like a child.

"We are _just flatmates_, John," Sherlock replied, with his back already turned towards John as he walked into his room.

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><p><em>Hello everyone! I just want to thank you all for new favs, alerts and above all the reviews! You have no idea how happy they make me, letting me know that there's someone who actually enjoy reading my writing. It always makes me feel so much better (especially as I'm having some hard time lately with my studies and all).<em>

_Hope you enjoy this chapter - this time it's finally longer one. _I love you all!__

_PS: And thanks for the wishing me health :* Unfortunately, this cold seems freakin' stubborn does not want to leave me alone..._


	7. Chapter 7

Feelings. _Feelings_. So many of them and Sherlock had no idea what he was supposed to do with those.

One thing that would never change about John Watson was that he was always able to surprise the detective. That damned question just now. Did it mean that John— No. Be rational. John was his woman-dating friend who had got hit in the head pretty hard. He was confused and Sherlock was the one that needed to sort it all out.

Still, detective's own body was betraying him. His hands were trembling while changing the dressing of perfectly healing wound. It was unacceptable. His hands never trembled. And then he—

He just needed to treat it like any other case. Just solve this, focus on things he was good at. If this was regular case, Sherlock would use John's help in getting perspective at this _emotions issue_. But this time he couldn't.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Just get to work. Sort out the feelings and disable one by one. You don't need them. They bring only trouble. _Disable_.

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John was bored and irritated. He was sick of trying to figure out his unpredictable flatmate and his own self. And god, he was _bored_. Sherlock was occupied with the case of Angelface and now left the flat to investigate. John didn't even ask to accompany him, it didn't seem appropriate to be a burden to the detective (while he felt like a burden to himself). But he really wanted to come along— And now he was bored. He tried to busy himself with a book, something on the telly, reading his own blog again but nothing could actually hold his interest.

Then he discovered nice amount of cash in his wallet and he finally decided. It was probably the most lame thing he could come up with, but he didn't give a damn.

He scribbled a note for Sherlock - just simple: _Went out for a walk. John_ - and left it on the coffee table.

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He was in this pub for the first time (at least he thought so), but it had nice atmosphere. Drinking alone was kind of pathetic but— at this very moment, could he even get more pathetic than he was already?

"Whiskey, please," John said sitting at the bar. "The best one you've got." Barman gave him friendly smile and a minute later the order was placed in front of the army doctor. He gulped almost half of the drink at once. It burnt in his throat nicely.

"John?"

Out of the blue, John heard male voice on his left. He didn't recognize it. Great, the last thing he needed now was bumping into a forgotten friend. He turned to look at the man - he was in his forties, well built, with grey hair and tired eyes. Eyes that now showed confusion at the obvious uncertain expression on John's face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, John," he smiled apologetically. "Maybe Sherlock is right and I _am_ an idiot. You don't remember me, do you? I'm Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector of Scotland Yard."

The scattered pieces of information in John's broken head found their rightful place and finally _something_ was clear.

"You're the Inspector who's cooperating with Sherlock?" he asked to gain full certainty.

"Yes, exactly." Lestrade smiled. "How are you feeling? I've found Sherlock and you that day. Your head looked pretty messed up."

"I'm having some monstrous headaches and I don't remember quite a few months of my life, but otherwise, it's good." He regretted the sarcasm the moment the words left his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Detective Inspector" he said, rubbing his eyes. "It's been hard couple of days."

"Of course, I understand. And if you don't mind, we were on first name terms before this all—" Lestrade waved his hand in the general direction of John's head "—memory stuff. Just call me Greg."

"Sure. I guess I don't have to introduce myself," John sighed. "You may even know me better than I do."

"You had a really bad day, hadn't you?" Lestrade seated himself on the stool next to him. John just smiled crookedly.

"Are you sure you can drink in your state?" Inspector frowned gazing at the whiskey in John's glass.

"I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm a damned doctor, Greg."

"Yeah, sure... Sherlock is giving you hell, huh?" Lestrade sipped his beer slowly, while John ordered another Jack Daniels.

"Kind of. He's troubled, too. I guess I was more useful to him before I got broken."

"Maybe," Lestrade shrugged. "I never really could get a handle on you two, but you appeared to be some kind of faultless symbiosis. I don't know..."

John just laughed dryly. Symbiosis with Sherlock Holmes – that was a tremendous joke.

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World didn't seem any less fucked up but it became kind of friendlier. The moon was shining brightly that night and the air was brisk. Yeah, world was definitely friendlier! And more— blurred. Well, at least that was what John Watson's mind was telling him at the moment. Very wobbly mind.

"You need a cab, John," Lestrade said. Guilt was obvious in his voice. He was little tipsy but he shouldn't had allowed the army doctor to get this drunk.

"He won't be needing one, Detective Inspector. I'll take care of him."

Lestrade turned violently towards the source of the voice.

"Good evening, Mr. Holmes," he said. Mycroft only smiled in return. John didn't say anything.

"Would you please guide Doctor Watson into the car, Detective Inspector?"

"I can get into the car by myself, Greg," John moaned, but still didn't fight when Lestrade led him into the black limousine.

Suddenly, the world wasn't as friendly as it was minute ago. Though, still blurred.

John didn't really keep up with when the car started moving and how the other Holmes was now sitting next to him.

"I was hoping for a little chat with you. But it seemed it would be unattainable now," Mycroft said with disapproval in his voice.

"Well, we are in fact chatting right now," John giggled and he had no idea why he did that.

"I prefer you when you're sober, doctor Watson."

"Oh, you have preferences about me? Nice."

What was with the giggling? He couldn't stop himself.

"Alright," Mycroft sighed. "221B Baker Street. Off you go."

To John's utter surprise, Holmes actually helped him to get out of the car. When John steadied himself in front of the front door, Mycroft still hadn't loosened the grip on his arm. John looked at him questioningly.

"Don't hurt him, John. He may actually _care_," he said with indifferent expression on his face and vanished into his black car.

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><p><em>Alright, so drunk John was kind of spontaneous decision - I wanted one more 'episode' before the climax of the story. I hope it all turned out all right ;) I was busy at the university past few days and I'm really really tired. Still, I didn't want to disappoint you and update today as promised. This chapter was written on the spot, I've finished it just few minutes ago. It's 1:47 am for me so I'm finally going to sleep. Hope you still enjoy the story. Love you all!<em>


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock almost jumped when he heard the clunk of the closed front door. He was waiting for John for two hours now. It wasn't exactly late, but John didn't reply to his text. What was he even doing for such a long time?

Heavy steps, the shuffling and obvious problem to climb the stairs were unmistakable symptoms. Still Sherlock went down to make sure of his deduction. To his own discontent, he was right.

John was drunk.

"Shshsherlk—" John beamed at him. "Hullo."

"Good evening, John."

Detective sighed and joined John by his side. He put his right hand around doctor's waist, then placed John's left one on his own shoulders and helped him overcome the stairs.

"You know, your umbrella gave me—" John started mumbling and then laughed. "Did I say umbrella? That's funny," he giggled even more. "Anyway! Your brother! Yeah, _brother _gave me a ride. That would be sweet of him if he wasn't so sour-faced all the time."

"Mycroft? _Oh,_ _great_."

They finally reached their floor and Sherlock made them turn to head for John's bedroom, but they lost balance and ended up leaning on the wall.

"You smell nice," John muttered, laying his head on Sherlock's collarbone. Sherlock froze in place while John started to get comfortable and snuggled his face into detective's neck.

"You're _not_ going to take a nap on me," Sherlock came round after few long moments and started climbing the stairs to John's bedroom. It went quite smoothly and finally John was laying on his bed.

Sherlock looked down on him. He felt _hurt_. Was detective really that hopeless? Earlier, John never got drunk. Sometimes he had a beer or two, sometimes went to a pub with Lestrade or Mike, but never achieved this state of intoxication. Sherlock was almost certain his almost-abstinence was caused by Harry's alcohol issues. But now John hadn't known about them yet - he complained he couldn't get in touch with his sister. Did that mean that without the restrain of Harry's addiction, John felt free to deal with his problems like that? Was Sherlock that bad carer and friend? If it wasn't for Harry, would John indulge in alcohol _before, _like when they had a fight or John needed to "get some air"? Was Sherlock destroying this irreplaceable brilliant man?

"I hate this life," John suddenly murmured. Sherlock thought he was already asleep but it seemed that doctor's mind was still dealing with anything that drove him into alcohol in the first place.

"I hate this," John repeated, talking to no one in particular, his eyes closed. Sherlock suddenly felt like he may throw up, although he was the sober one. He knew he shouldn't listen to this, but he couldn't move. "I want to go back. Why did this happen? Sherlock, why is it all—" He inhaled heavily. "I want the symbiosis again, symbiosis of you and me. It feels like I was happy then. I want to be happy, I want—"

Sherlock found himself sitting on the floor next to John's bed, listening to doctor's regular breathing as he finally fell asleep.

Too many emotions. His whole life he assuaged them and all of a sudden they seem to gather an army and start a rebellion.

Breathe. Sort out. Disable.

Confusion. Oh, Sherlock _hated _this one. Get rid of it.

Anger. Being angry at yourself didn't exactly help. Black it out.

Happiness. What the hell was it even doing here while he felt like his entrails was ripped out of him?

So many feelings. _Too _many. He couldn't cope with them. How do people handle them?

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><p><em>Sorry, this one it's a short one. We're getting closer and closer to the end... <em>  
><em>Anyway, drunk John was really fun to write ;) As always, thank you so much for the favs, alerts and reviews! :*<br>I'd love to write next chapter now and upload it already (I don't feel good with such short update when you're all there being so awesome and lovely) but I need to study now... Russian grammar is so much fun..._


	9. Chapter 9

John woke up with a spectacular headache. His head wasn't exactly cooperative since the awakening in hospital but today John would gladly accept an offer of trying out a guillotine. Even though he knew he would regret getting drunk, he hadn't thought it would be _that_ horrible.

When he finally found enough courage to actually move, he had only two things in mind – double dose of tramadol washed down with two litres of water (which he surprisingly found by his bed) and a hot shower.

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When the medicine finally started to work and the hot water made his aching muscles relax, the blurred memories of yesterday started to emerge from hangovered depths of his mind. He laughed dryly when he remembered his "I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm a damned doctor". However, he didn't feel like laughing when he recalled Mycroft Holmes who actually gave him a ride to Baker Street – what was he even doing there? How did he know John was there?

Yet, John felt like his headache had actually worsened when he realised he didn't remember what happened after he came back here. He was drunk as a lord and he had no idea what rubbish he could had choked out of himself. And despite amnesia, he knew himself really well and was aware of his confession-mode while drunk. He could just hope that this time he went to sleep straightaway.

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He took a nap to let the painkillers to their work, before he went down to get some breakfast. One thing he had already learnt about his flatmate was that you never know what mood he would be in today. And to be honest, John was less than indulgent today. Headache was killing him.

"Good afternoon, John."

Sherlock was sitting on the couch, violin resting on his crossed legs. John had seen the instrument before but never guessed that it was actually in use. There was a lot of weird stuff lying around the flat, he took the violin for one of them. Though, now, Sherlock seemed a violinist type to John. He was just like the instrument, slender and beautiful, but needed to be handled skilfully and required patience.

"Not to so good, really," doctor answered as he went into the kitchen, feeling his flatmate's gaze on his back. He wasn't sure if he should ask about his behaviour last night. He had made a fool of himself sober, so playing ignorant about what may had happened last night might let him maintain remnants of respect. The feeling of not being seen as _total_ idiot in genius detective eyes, just _an idiot_ – it seemed good enough for now.

He made tea - for both of them - and seated himself in an armchair. Sherlock seemed focused on whatever he had on his mind and John was somewhat afraid to start any conversation in order not to lose anymore "points" in Sherlock's eyes. Though, just sitting in detective's company was enjoyable. To his own surprise, John felt peace of mind, like he had found himself where he belongs.

When John was finishing his tea, Sherlock raised the violin to his shoulder, positioned himself with fluent movement and started playing.

And, god, he was _good_. It seemed like Sherlock was perfect at everything - excluding social sense.

John felt like he knew the melody. He was never into that kind of music and it wasn't any of the "classics" that you couldn't say that you don't know, like "Ode to Joy" or whatever. Nevertheless, it was familiar and it was stunningly _beautiful_.

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He woke up to the sound of incoming text message and only then he realised that he had fallen asleep at all. Still not fully awake he reached for the mobile.

"Is that _my_ phone?" Sherlock's deep voice was unexpected and John started visibly.

"What...? Oh god, I'm sorry, it _is_ your phone... I haven't read it. It's just we have the same alerts... Sorry, that headache is killing me. Do we have any painkillers? I don't want to overdose the tramadol."

Sherlock took his mobile from John's hand and answered: "I think you've always kept first aid kit and the medicines somewhere in the kitchen."

John stood up and proceeded to probing their cupboards. To be honest, his headache was almost gone. He still had that melody that Sherlock played in his mind and it somehow seemed to sooth his suffering. Even though, when he found the aspirin next to some antiseptics, he still took it. He needed to fool the only consulting detective and it in order to do that, it was crucial to keep appearances.

He needed to do that because he lied to Sherlock. He _had read_ that text message and it didn't call for Holmes' genius brain to decipher it. John quite swiftly tackled the meaning and didn't like it at all. He could easily recall it in his mind. The abbreviated sentence ("rv/Angelface") the date ("2day 7p") and the place (he knew it, it wasn't far from here).

John decided not to be angry yet. Sherlock had just received the text, he still had the time to tell him about it. Because he must tell him. He _must _tell John about _rendezvous with Angelface today at 7 pm._

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><p><em>Hello everyone! I'm so excited about next chapters, finally some real action - you know, guns, villains and all the fluffy stuff ;)<br>Hope you still enjoy the story :* See you in two days!_


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock Holmes was an idiot. He was a _freakin idiot_ and John Watson was going to yell it into his face— as soon as he gets the chance.

Sherlock didn't tell him about the meeting with Angelface. John was intentionally mooching around the flat, he even asked if there was any progress in the case. But still, detective didn't say anything... John didn't give himself away. When half past six, Sherlock announced that he's going out, John just nodded and continued to watch "Doctor Who" on the tv like he didn't care. But two minutes and seventeen seconds after the detective left the flat, he run to his room, took his gun and followed his idiotic genius flatmate.

When he arrived at the place of "rendezvous_",_ Sherlock and Angelface were already in the middle of conversation. Well, if you can call it _conversing_, when one person is standing with his hands in the air and the other one is playing with gigantic knife in his hand. John knew that Sherlock must have some sort of plan. But now it didn't seem that he's exactly in control of the situation and John could only curse him in his mind.

At least, John found a perfect hideout. He was hidden behind a wall next to barred gate that led from one section of the building to another. He could comfortably tilt at the corner to control the situation. The warehouse where the "rendezvous" was taking place was already closed for the night, but that gate was not locked, so he was free to get even closer. Still, if he opened it now, the noise would give away his position. And for now, the unawareness of his presence was his best advantage. Acoustics in this place were horrible so he had no idea what the men were talking about, but up to that moment, Sherlock seemed to manage to keep Angelface from actually using that knife.

Unfortunately, before John made it to coming up with any kind of plan, Angelface finally lost his patience. He dangerously swung the knife and took a step forward. John tensed, grasping his gun and releasing the safety catch. He positioned himself, aiming between the bars, ready to shoot if the situation got any more dangerous.

_Am I really going to pull that trigger?_ His conscience was almost screaming along with the common sense. His heart was beating extremely fast, though hands were perfectly steady. _It is not war anymore. Am I really going to _kill_ for someone I barely know?_

"Enough talking!" Angelface yelled and John's breathing became short, intermittent gasps.

_Get yourself together, Watson. Are you capable _of shooting someone's back_for antisocial flatmate who you barely know?_

Suddenly, shot of pain went through the back of his head, his vision blackening for splits of second. It all crushed on him in a tangled string of memories— Unhesitatingly pulling the trigger with his gun aimed at that damned cabby, bumping into Mike, waking up after he was shot in Afghanistan and unbearable pain in his arm, all the running through London along Sherlock's side, violin play in the middle of the night, first meeting at Bart's, the arguments and 'getting some air' at Sarah's couch, the shared laugh, getting mistaken for Sherlock's date, Mycroft's kidnappings, the moment when he realized he doesn't need his cane, apologizing for the high-functioning sociopath's unsociable behaviours, all the sleepless nights, giggling at the crime scene, killing for Sherlock and willingness to do it again, Sherlock's dramas when he's bored, the absolute brilliance of his and at the very last, the overwhelming loneliness that was stifling him after the Afghanistan and the end of it when he met Sherlock.

When he came round, he was kneeling, his back leaning on the wall. He was shivering and couldn't calm his breathing. As soon as he was sure he would not fall on his face if he moved, he turned around. The recollection felt like getting thrown into some other dimension, but it seemed it all lasted few seconds. Sherlock was still in one piece, though Angelface was growing more upset. He was screaming now.

"I knew I've seen you before! Last time I've got my hands only on your little friend but it's nice you've actually came to me on your own. You've played enough on my nerves!"

He made another step towards Sherlock. Detective said something that didn't reach John's ears. Angelface only laughed.

"Oh, I think we'll make do without a chair this time." Angelface positioned himself to attack with ugly smile on his burnt face.

John pulled the trigger without hesitation. He had no regrets. No doubts. Not _now_.

Angelface faltered awkwardly and dropped the knife as choked scream left his throat. He tried to steady himself, seeking support by desperately grasping Sherlock's coat. Both men fell to the ground.

John jumped to his feet and run towards them. Firstly, he looked at the Angelface in the swelling puddle of dark liquid. His chest bloody, blank eyes frozen in misunderstanding, scarred face even more hideous than when he was alive. He was no longer a threat.

When John was sure that there's no more danger, he could finally turn to Sherlock.

He was still sitting on the ground, his eyes scanning the crime scene with confusion. John wanted to call him but somehow he couldn't find his voice. Instead, he approached the detective and stretched out his hand.

Sherlock's eyes met John's— and it was enough for him to _see_, to _understand_.

Detective took his hand and rose to his feet, their gazes still locked

"John... You're back," Sherlock exhaled, his harsh breath sounding almost like a sob.

"Yes, I'm back," he gasped and swayed back a little, still dizzy with growing pain at the back of his head. He was sure he's going to lose his balance, when suddenly he felt steady grip of Sherlock's hands on his waist, moving him closer to the detective. John leaned on him, clutching Sherlock's coat.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah... Everything is alright _now_."

Their foreheads touched as they stood embraced by all the words that they didn't need to say in this unspoken reunion.

Somehow their lips found each other. High on adrenaline, wearing off fear and overwhelming relief, they felt like world had stopped. Nothing else mattered— because when a sociopath and damaged ex-army doctor find their perfectly matching contradiction and it is them against the world and they couldn't care less unless they're together and they _are_ faultless together– what else is there to matter?

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><p><em>Well.. I've got to admit I was extremely nervous about this chapter - it is the climax of the story and I wanted it to be perfect. I can't say that I'm pleased with it but I just really hope you will enjoy it and I didn't disappoint you with the progress of the story ^^" There still one last chapter to go! Reviews will be more than welcomed! Lovin' you all for staying with me :)<em>


	11. Chapter 11

Police sirens brought them back to earth. They parted without a word and John took a step back, though he clutched Sherlock's coat in his hands for few more seconds.

"So _that_ was your plan, you big idiot?" John asked, tilting his head in the direction of oncoming police cars.

Sherlock shrugged and John couldn't help but smile.

"Don't make it more difficult that it has to be when Yard comes, _please_?" John said. "My patience for you is on the verge, almost getting yourself stabbed is enough for the evening, so _behave_, okay?" he looked at Sherlock askance and sighed "I just want to go home..."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes constantly fixed on his flatmate.

"You're silent, that's weird. What is it now, you big idiot?"

"You're calling me an idiot a lot today."

"'Cause you _are_ an idiot. Don't even try to argue on that one today."

Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile.

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They were finally at Baker Street after evening that just lasted too long. Though Sherlock really behaved, it was Dimmock who arrived from Scotland Yard and he insisted on getting their statements right on the crime scene. John's headache became even worse by the time police were finished with them.

When he entered the flat, solace and delight filled John's body. After everything that happened, it was just damned good to be _home._

"I need to take the tramadol or I'll cut my head off," he announced as he went directly to his bedroom. He didn't want Sherlock to think he's running away. Nevertheless, when he went down a few minutes later, the detective was nowhere to be seen.

For a minute, he stood in front of the door to Sherlock's room. They needed to have that talk. Sooner the better. He finally decided to knock.

"Come in."

"I just wanted to make sure you're all right. I didn't have time to check if Angelface didn't actually reach you with this knife of his," John said. He stood next to the door, giving his flatmate uncertain look.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, his elbows leaning on his knees. After hearing John's words, he just smiled slightly. He didn't have to voice anything for John to understand. His gaze was telling everything. _We both know that's not why you're here, John._

John inhaled sharply and walked towards the detective. He stopped just in front of him, so that Sherlock needed to straighten up and lift his head to keep their eyes fixed. John cautiously raised his hand and stroked Sherlock's lower lip with his thumb.

"What are we going to do about _it,_ then?"

Sherlock only just kept staring at him, like he was saying: _Feelings. Don't ask me. Your area._

John almost laughed when he realised all of the unspoken words, all the things they just didn't need to say. The symbiosis which they almost lost, now so blissfully regained.

"You said you were married to your work. The first day."

John wanted to withdraw his hand but Sherlock's cheek followed his slow retreat, almost nestling into his palm. John froze, the other man too, his head leaned unnaturally in order not to break the touch.

"That was a precaution," Sherlock said finally, still immobile. John could feel his jaw moving against his palm. "It never worked with anyone: being with me. I'm just not a 'relationship-material'. But then you— I've started believing you can do it, you almost did—"

"Did what?"

"Fixed me."

John finally moved, forcing Sherlock to look up, to look at him.

"I need an answer, Sherlock. Do we _try_? Or do we choose not to remember about that kiss, about this conversation?"

"I want you to fix me, John."

"Good. Because I don't ever want to _forget_."

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><p><em>So, this is the end. I hope you all enjoyed the story and you find the ending right (I personally hate it when I get into a fanfiction and get a disappointing ending) so I can just believe that this one was "right" (god, I can't express myself!).<em>

_Thank you for all the reviews to the last chapter - they're always so so welcomed. Especially thanks for the one regarding my lack of articles - I'll try to be more attentive in the future. But I had to admit those little creatures don't like me. I think my writing teacher is running out of patience when she has to _always_ scold me for my inability to place them properly. We don't have anything like those in Polish (my native language) and I still lack the intution to put them where they're supposed to be. But it seemed that a remark from a reader here has made me concerned more than the ones from my lecturer at uni ;)_

_And I'm really sorry that with the last chapter I didn't keep my every-two-day rule and you get the update with the delay. I had problems with internet connection all weekend :c_

_So-_

_Thank you again for reading my story. I'm not sure when and if I will write something new... We'll see._

_I love you all - you were the readers of my 'virgin' story here and I really appreaciate you all stuck with me all this time!_

_And at the end special thanks to my roommate and my personal Watson - aalayah - who was making sure that this didn't turned out a total gibberish. Thank you, honey, for putting up with me ;)_


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